Pick up the Trumpet

She walked past the living room and looked with a frown.

The brassy trumpet she bought was laying on the ground.

Her son had asked to let him join the middle school’s band,

yet he sat on the couch; feet kicked up and controller in hand.

His hoodie obscured round eyes and kinky hair,

she smirked at his sigh as he acknowledged her stare.

“You should be practicing,” she said, her hand on her hip.

She felt her smile fall when she saw him bite his lip.

He set aside his controller and she sat by his side.

He tried to look away, but his emotions couldn’t hide.

“This thing it too hard, and no one there is like me.”

She pat his leg; the problem wasn’t hard to see.

“Being different is good, it makes you unique.

He tilted his head; a quirk he gets when he thinks.

“Being me is ok, even if it’s lame?”

“Being you is great, no one else is the same.”

“Now pick up that trumpet, you need to practice”

She said with a smile, on his cheek she left a kiss.


This is just a short poem that came to my head. It’s actually based on the conversation my mom had with my little brother (though he played trombone).





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